The Fourth Monkey

by J. D. Barker

  Father was on the floor. I watched as he reached up and twisted the deadbolt before sinking back down.

  “He shot you!” Mother shrieked.

  I shook my head. “No, Mother, it was just a splinter, nothing serious. I’ll be okay.”

  It took a moment before I realized she wasn’t talking to me. I followed her eyes to Father. His left hand was pressed against his right shoulder. A growing red stain peeked out between his fingers.

  Mother stood and went to him.

  “Stay low,” Father said.

  She knelt down beside him. “Let me see.”

  “He nicked me. I don’t think it’s bad.”

  Mother unbuttoned his shirt and examined the wound. “Get me the medicine kit and a damp towel, and keep your head down,” she told me.

  I shuffled to the kitchen and retrieved the little red box from beneath the sink. We kept identical kits in each bedroom as well as the bathroom. Mother typically used this particular kit on me when I scraped a knee or dinged an elbow, which was fairly often, and I wondered if it was fully stocked. I considered getting one of the others but decided it was best to get this one to Mother and go back for more if necessary. I found a clean hand towel in the drawer beside the sink and ran it under the water, getting it good and wet, then raced back into the living room.

  Sweat glistened on Father’s forehead. I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen him sweat.

  Mother took the kit, flipped open the latch with one hand, and pulled out the alcohol bottle. She wiped away the excess blood with the towel and poured alcohol on the torn flesh. Father inhaled with a deep hiss.

  The bullet had not passed through his skin but had grazed it, leaving a red trench in its wake. I leaned in close to get a better look, and Mother batted me away. “You’re blocking the light.”

  “Sorry, Mother.”

  She dabbed at the scrape again and retrieved a roll of gauze with her free hand. A minute later she had the wound wrapped. The bandage turned pink, but the blood had already slowed. Father would be okay.

  He smiled up at her. “Thank you.”

  Mother nodded and dropped the remaining alcohol and gauze back into the first aid kit, then slid the box to the side. “Now what?”

  “Now we end this.”

  72

  Clair

  Day 2 • 5:09 p.m.

  Clair stepped closer. “Did you open it?”

  Espinosa shook his head. “I wanted to save you the honors. If you think it could be something dangerous, I can get the bomb squad over here.”

  Nash knelt down in front of the white box, slipped on a pair of latex gloves, and tapped at the black string tied at the top. “That’s not our guy’s style. He tends to leave body parts inside his boxes. Nothing ever this big, though.”

  “Open it up, Nash,” Clair said.

  “Maybe we should flip for it. I had to open the last one.”

  “No, I insist. I saw Seven—if Gwyneth’s head is in there, the image will be stuck in my mind for months. This is all you. Be a man.”

  Nash rolled his eyes and turned back to the box. “For the record, it’s a standard file box, the kind you can pick up at any office supply store.” He knelt closer. “I don’t smell anything, and there’s no sign of dampness or leakage—nothing written on it.”

  He tugged at the string, releasing the knot; it fell to the sides. When he reached for the lid, both Clair and Espinosa took a step back.

  “Maybe we should wait for CSI to get here,” Nash suggested.

  “Open it. It may tell us where to find Emory.”

  Nash nodded reluctantly, peeled off the lid, and leaned over the top, peering inside. “Huh.”

  73

  Diary

  I flinched as someone pounded at the front door.

  “Did I get you?” Mr. Stranger asked from the other side. “Sorry about that. I guess I got a little carried away. It’s been so long since I’ve been out hunting, and I’ve been all giddy about firing my peashooter since we left the city.”

  “Stay away from the windows,” Father said softly.

  I nodded and drew closer to the corner of the couch. I wasn’t scared, though. Okay, maybe a little, but I wasn’t about to let Mother or Father know. I wanted my knife.

  Another loud bang as Mr. Stranger struck the door again. I couldn’t tell if he used his fist or the butt of the rifle, but I jumped just the same.

  Mr. Stranger’s muffled voice said, “I tried asking nice, I did. Now I’m going to ask not so nice. I need the paperwork your lovely neighbor stole. I know you’ve got it, so let’s forgo the pretense that you don’t. I’m not sure what is going on over here, and frankly, I don’t care all that much. You give us those documents and point us toward whatever rock the Carters are hiding under, and we’ll be on our way, no further questions. That’s not a bad deal, right? I think I’m being nice and fair about the situation.”

  “He thinks they’re both still alive,” Mother said quietly. She had edged away from Father and was trying to peek out the side window.

  “Course, if that rock is in there with you and you’re hiding them, well, that’s another story entirely. You don’t really want to harbor criminals, do you? That’s what he is, you know. Anyone who steals from their place of business, even if it’s only information, that puts you clearly in the criminal camp in my book, right next to the rapists and murderers. His wife ain’t no better, either. She’s got a whole box of scruples stacked away in her closet.”

  His voice was loud but steady. I got the impression he was standing right there on the porch, right on the other side of our door. If we had a gun, we could shoot him clean and true through the wood. A bullet at the center would probably do the trick. He probably thought we had a gun, a big one, otherwise he would have busted the door down by now. I know I would. Father didn’t believe in guns, though, and he would never let such a weapon into the house. “Accidents happen with guns,” he always said. “Knives, on the other hand—you don’t stab somebody by accident. There’s no accidental discharge on a knife.” I wondered if he was rethinking that whole stance. I couldn’t read his face. He had barely moved. It wasn’t the bullet wound holding him still—that was just a nick—he was concentrating. I imagined he was formulating a plan. Father didn’t panic. Nor did he overreact. He always seemed to know exactly what to do and when.

  Mother crawled over to the window behind the couch, the one with a view of our side yard, and raised her head, peeking over the sill. When a face appeared, she jumped back and let out a shriek. The man with the long blond hair and thick glasses stood on the opposite side of the glass, a grin growing across his thin red lips. He mouthed the word hello and pressed his palm to the windowpane. I watched the moisture build around it, and when he pulled away, a perfect palm print was left behind. He then brought up the barrel of a rifle and tapped it against the glass. His grin widened even more as he ducked from sight. Mother and I looked at each other, then back to Father, searching for some kind of guidance.

  Another pound at the front door. “You still in there?”

  Father raised a finger to his lips.

  Mr. Stranger continued. “I found the whole business with their car a little perplexing. I guess leaving it at the train station like that makes perfect sense—make things seem like they took off on a trip. But why leave their suitcases in the car? Who goes on a trip and forgets their bags? When we found the car, when I saw the bags, it was clear to me somebody had staged the scene. At first I thought the Carters were trying to create a little head fake, throw the foxes off their scent so they could zig while the rest of us zagged. Once I thought it through, though, I dismissed that idea. Simon isn’t all too bright. Sure, he’s a whiz with numbers, but like most book-smart people, he’s got no common sense, no street smarts. If he were to run, he’d run. That means if he had really abandoned the car at the train station, the bags would have boarded with him. Once I figured out that little ruse, it didn’t take long to piece togethe
r your involvement. You’ve got the only two houses down this godforsaken stretch of road. Where else would they go? Your kid about shat his britches when I stopped by the other day. He’s a bright one, I’ll give him that, but he needs some work in the lying department. Nothing a few more years under life’s big top won’t cure.”

  Father pointed at Mother, then toward the kitchen, and made a stabbing motion in the air. Mother understood and crawled past me in search of knives.

  “Anyway, my mouth is running off. It doesn’t matter how I ended up on your porch, only that I’m here and you’re there, and the things I need are somewhere in between. I imagine you’re not willing to risk your lives over a few papers, probably not even to harbor your criminal neighbors. I mean, why die for them, right? Why let your kid die over somebody else’s problem? That’s what’s going to happen if you don’t come out soon.”

  Mother returned, holding two large chef’s knives from the wood block on the counter. She handed one to Father and kept the second for herself.

  Mr. Stranger cleared his throat. “Like I said, I asked nicely. Now I’m going to ask not so nice. While you and I have been chatting, my friend Mr. Smith has been circling this beautiful house of yours with a couple cans of gasoline. It stinks to high heaven out here! He spread it nice and high on the walls, under the crawlspace, even got a couple of your trees so we can light this place up real good and bright.”

  Something crashed on top of the roof, then rolled for a few seconds before coming to a stop.

  “Whew! I wish you could see this! He tossed a full can up on your roof, and it’s pouring out all over the place. Hell, it’s coming out the rainspouts. He soaked this place from top to bottom with ninety-three octane.” Mr. Stranger was chuckling, his voice rising with excitement. “This is the part where I ask not so nice. You’ve got five minutes to come out with the Carters, or we start dropping matches and have ourselves a little bonfire. Of course, that means we lose the paperwork and your neighbors, but I’m okay with that. I’ll sleep like a baby knowing this ends right here. If you try to run, we’ll pick you off like pigeons at the range. Five minutes, people. Not a second more.”

  74

  Porter

  Day 2 • 5:12 p.m.

  The cab squealed to a halt on West Belmont east of Lake Shore Drive, across from the Belmont Edge apartments. The cabdriver pointed a thumb toward the building at their right. “There it is. I believe that was record time.”

  Porter slid over in the seat and peered out the window. The building was fairly typical for this area: brick, probably built around the turn of the twentieth century, with a glass storefront on the ground floor and what appeared to be residential space on the second floor. Many of the shop owners in this part of town lived on premises. For those who did not, the apartments rented for a small fortune. They were within a stone’s throw of Lake Michigan, and waterfront views were always at a premium. Walking distance didn’t hurt, either.

  Porter reached for the door handle and started to climb out.

  “Hey!” the driver shouted. “You owe me $26.22!”

  “I don’t have any money,” Porter replied. “But Chicago Metro thanks you for your assistance.”

  “The hell it does!” The driver unfastened his seat belt and opened his door.

  Porter raised a hand. “Relax, I’m kidding. I’ll call my partner from inside and get some cash. Give me a minute.”

  The driver prepared to argue, then shifted abruptly and said, “Your leg is bleeding.”

  Porter looked down at his thigh, where a dark stain about two inches around had formed. “Crap, I think I pulled a stitch.”

  “You really did get stabbed?”

  Porter reached down his thigh and pressed at it tenderly with the tip of his finger. It came away damp with blood.

  “I should take you back to the hospital.”

  He shook his head. “I’ll be all right.”

  The man nodded reluctantly and leaned against the side of his car.

  Porter turned back to the storefront.

  Lost Time Antiques and Collectibles appeared dark. He limped to the front door and tried the handle—locked. Cupping his hands, he pressed his face against the glass.

  “They’re closed,” the driver said from behind him. “Their hours are posted by the door,” he said. “They lock up at five. We missed them by about fifteen minutes.”

  Porter took a step back and found the small red sign with the posted store hours. He was right. He went back to the glass and peered inside. The walls were covered in clocks. Everything from small digital models to freestanding grandfather clocks. The pendulums swung back and forth tirelessly, some moving in sync, others independent of the group. It was mesmerizing. He could only imagine what it sounded like inside when they struck at the top of the hour.

  Porter pounded his fist on the door, then stepped back and eyed the apartment upstairs. Maybe the owner lived up there?

  “I don’t mean to tell you how to do your job, but if you got some urgent business with this place—and I’m guessing you do, considering you’re willing to stand there and beat on the door while bleeding on the sidewalk—maybe you could ask next door? They might know how to reach the manager or the owner.”

  Porter turned and followed the man’s gaze. A woman exited the shop next door, holding three dry cleaning bags. She nearly tripped off the curb as she circled the parking meter to get to the trunk of her car.

  Porter felt his heart pound. He stepped up to the parking meter in front of the cab and read the rate card.

  $0.75 per hour.

  “Can I borrow your cell phone?”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  Porter’s face must have said he was not, because the man shrugged his shoulders, walked around to the driver’s door, and pulled his cell phone from a clip on the dash. Porter punched in a number.

  “Klozowski,” came the voice on the other side.

  “Kloz, it’s Porter.”

  “Did you get a new number?”

  “Long story. Are you near the evidence board?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  Porter took a deep breath. “How much change did we find in the bus victim’s pocket?”

  “You mean Kittner, AKA no longer 4MK? Seventy-five cents. Why?”

  He started toward the cleaners next door. “What was the receipt number on the dry cleaning ticket?”

  “What are you doing? Shouldn’t you be resting?”

  “Kloz, I need that ticket number.” He pushed through the door and went straight to the counter.

  An overweight man with dark hair, thick glasses, and two large laundry bags gave him a dirty look. The kid behind the counter had no such scruples. “Back of the line, buddy.” Then he saw the bloodstain on Porter’s pants. “Shit, do you need a doctor?”

  Porter reached for his back pocket to retrieve his badge and remembered for the second time he didn’t have it. “I’m with Chicago Metro. I need you to pull up a ticket for me.” Back to the phone: “Kloz, the ticket number?”

  “Ah, yeah, it’s 54873.”

  He repeated the number back to the clerk, who eyed him suspiciously, then punched it into his computer. “Give me a second.” He disappeared through a doorway, heading toward the back of the store.

  Behind him, Porter heard the overweight man drop both laundry bags on the floor and let out a sigh.

  “Sorry.”

  The man grunted but said nothing.

  The kid returned, holding three hangers all bunched together. He hung them on a hook attached to the side of the counter.

  Porter peeled back the plastic, revealing a pair of women’s jogging shorts, a white tank top, socks, and undergarments. All had been cleaned and pressed. White and pink Nikes were in another bag fastened to the hangers.

  The kid pointed to the shoes. “I told the guy when he dropped those off that we don’t clean shoes, but he insisted we keep it all together.”

  “Porter? Talk to me,” Kloz said.
“What’s going on?”

  “I’ve got Emory’s clothes.”

  75

  Diary

  “Get Lisa and bring her up here,” Father instructed Mother.

  She nodded and disappeared into the kitchen. I heard the squeak of the basement door and her steps as she descended. He turned to me. “Champ, go in the kitchen and pull out Mother’s soup pot—you know which one I mean? The big one with the glass lid?”

  I nodded.

  “Fill the pot about an inch with vegetable oil, and put it on the stove, full heat. Think you can do that?”

  I nodded again.

  “Okay, hurry up now.”

  I ran into the kitchen, pulled the soup pot out from the lower cabinet, and placed it on the burner. I found the vegetable oil in a cabinet next to the stove, nearly a full gallon. I twisted off the cap and poured about a quarter into the pot, then spun the burner control knob to the highest setting. Nothing happened. A second later I smelled gas. “Poppycock,” I said to nobody in particular, then dug out the box of matches from the drawer beside the stove. The pilot light always seemed to go out; Mother probably went through a box of matches each week. I struck one on my jeans and watched it flare to life, then guided the flame under the pot. The gas caught with a poof. Blue flames licked out across the bottom of the metal. I dropped the box of matches into my pocket and went back out to the living room, giving Father a thumbs-up.

  He nodded.

  Another knock at the door. “It’s awfully quiet in there. Everything okay? Four minutes left by my watch.”

  “Simon Carter is dead!” Father shouted back.

  Only silence on the other side of the door for a moment, then: “What happened?”